


To Serve & Protect

by LoreKeeper427



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cameos, Chicago (City), Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Violence, Mild Language, No Smut, POV Alternating, Police, Slow Burn, Thedosian Cullen in Modern World, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-03-14 17:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18952627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoreKeeper427/pseuds/LoreKeeper427
Summary: A call to the Chicago PD’s homicide division sends Lieutenant Lacy Trevelyan to a museum late at night to investigate. When she arrives, she encounters a suspect in strange clothes with an unbelievable story. How did he get there? What is the nature of the museum’s strange antique mirror? And why are her instincts telling her to trust him?************Updates will be sporadic and there is no set schedule. As time allows, updates will occur.Rated for LanguagePlease note: There may be possible triggers in this fic. Please take care of yourself and get a pre-reader if necessary. Chapters are indicated with a warning beforehand if content could be sensitive to readers. Take care of yourself.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW-Canon typical violence

Their blades crossed, sparking upon impact. 

Shockwaves coursed through Cullen’s arm as the bastard sword reverberated within his grip. The song of steel crashing against steel filled the clearing and his ears, but he didn’t so much as flinch at the attack. The honor of putting down Samson and slapping him in shackles would be his, and now was the time.   

They pushed against one another in a stalemate; a test of wills to see which one would bend first. While Cullen was resolved to come out of this battle the victor, that did not lessen his adversary’s skills. Templar-trained and bearing first hand knowledge of Cullen’s fighting style, Samson stood more of a chance than anyone in Thedas of capitalizing on Cullen’s weaknesses. 

With a sneer, Samson twisted his blade, the squeal of metal ringing sharply as his sword slid along the length of Cullen’s, attempting to break the deadlock. Shifting his weight in order to halt Samson’s tactic, Cullen nearly lost his footing on the steps descending from the Well of Sorrows. It was narrow, but he had fought in closer confines in Kirkwall, in Kinloch; he was not about to be deterred by a flight of stairs and a mythical well.

The others were nearby, somewhere in the temple, engaged in battles against Red Templars. Which left Cullen the sole force of opposition to prevent Samson from obtaining the well for Corypheus. Cullen only knew its overall purpose—to somehow allow the Darkspawn Magister to enter the Fade— but why Samson wanted to be a vessel, he had no idea. Then again, he'd long since given up trying to understand the motivations of a monster. In truth, it hardly mattered. After all the turmoil Samson had caused the Inquisition, Cullen would be run through with his own sword before letting the traitor to get his filthy hands on anything that gave him an advantage. But, the red lyrium pumping through Samson’s veins made him stronger. Despite Dagna’s rune rendering Samson’s uniquely crafted armor useless, it still hadn’t negated the effects of the substance in his system. Though he could not afford to consider it, Cullen, who no longer took regular lyrium, was at a disadvantage.

With a lunge more powerful than Cullen had been prepared for, Samson sent him staggering back two paces. A forceful kick intended for his midsection was blocked swiftly with his shield; the Inquisition symbol had taken such a beating it barely resembled itself. The dissonant clatter of bootheel striking damaged metal drowned out Cullen’s angry grunt. He rallied quickly, realizing victory would be hard won. Cullen swung out with his sword, not allowing Samson a moment to gather himself. As his weapon sang through the air, Cullen followed through with his shield. He smashed it into Samson’s armored shoulder and sent the traitor staggering, though not nearly as severely as Cullen had.

The clash of weapons filled the air and echoed off the walls of the ruin, punctuated by the shrieks and grunts of other battles in the distance. From the sounds, Cullen couldn’t tell if the inner circle was faltering in their fight against the Red Templars or if they had the upper hand. Maker, with the state of the world, it had been a miracle they made it this far.

With a well-aimed movement, Samson swiped left and Cullen dodged, the point of the sword nearly missing the fabric of his mantle. Realizing a change in tactic was required, Cullen broke from the known and began to improvise with methods he had only ever witnessed from Orlesian allies but never personally attempted. 

Swinging low, he took aim at the leather clad ankles before him in a maneuver he had seen dagger wielders employ, trying to alter the fight in his favor. Samson leapt over the blade easily. In a crouch that a man in heavy armor should never attempt, Cullen was unable to rise and avoid the metal-clad elbow. Colliding with his head, it sent the world spinning. He squeezed his eyes to stop the dizziness and tried to move, but Samson’s knee crashed into his hand. As though time was bent by a mage’s spell, Cullen watched as his sword flew into the Well of Sorrows. 

Dazed by the blow, Cullen shifted to shield the worst of his wounds. But the attempt was awkward and ill-thought, his right side was left completely unguarded in the process. The mistake proved to be all Samson needed. 

A boot met with his torso and Cullen lost his balance, tumbling down the stairs. His beaten body hit every edge of stone tread during the descent. Landing with a thud, the air was forcefully expelled from his lungs. He gasped audibly while blinking open bleary eyes. His head pounded, and a quick touch to the temple stained his fingers with blood. Breath ragged, he forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. A sharp throb in his side caused a hiss in pain, but he pressed on. Cataloging his injuries would have to wait.

Realizing how much ground he had lost in his fall, Cullen’s eyes lifted to find Samson had already crested the steps. Pace quickening, he ascended three at a time, making his way to the top as quickly as possible. From his place at the summit, Samson caught his eye. He sent a wickedly triumphant and evil grin, as if to say ‘I told you, you wouldn’t stop me.’ 

Pushing himself faster, Cullen nearly misstepped trying to catch up. His head still throbbed from the blow and his fall. Upon reaching the top, the eluvian glowed iridescent blue. Samson passed through it as the mirror dimmed to its natural reflective surface in front of the well. 

A quick glance to the basin showed its depths empty; Cullen’s sword the only thing remaining. Cursing under his breath, he scooped up his weapon and charged the mirror, crying out in defiance of the traitor’s escape. His own face greeted him at the top. Palm slapping against smooth glass, he tried to plunge through the mirror but feared breaking it. A snarl curled his lips as he growled in desperation and turned from his reflection to scan his surroundings. But there was no one present to help him. He had failed. Giving in to rage, Cullen roared and spun back on the eluvian, slamming the pommel of his sword into the ornate frame. The reflection shifted like ripples in a pond, illuminating blue once again. 

“Thank the Maker,” he breathed. Whether an act of mercy or pity, he didn’t know, but found himself grateful nevertheless.

Inhaling deeply, Cullen plunged forward into the unknown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- Graphic Violence

The clock on the dash flickered 2:46 AM. Lacy removed the styrofoam cup from its holder and swirled it before drinking. She grimaced at the cold, stale coffee. After spending hours at a homicide across town, she sought sustenance. The closest fast food joint that sounded appealing was still four blocks up. The street lights illuminated the empty sidewalks as she cruised down the road. There wasn’t any sign of suspicious activity or persons in this part of the area. Which was more than fine with her; there was hardly ever a quiet night. But it made her shift particularly long. Even though she was no longer required to personally investigate such matters, habits from her days in patrol would never change.

The static of the radio crackled before the voice came through. “Inquisitor.”

Lacy grabbed her radio and responded, “Go for I41.”

“A silent alarm was tripped in the Museum on Lake Shore Drive.”

 _So, what?_ In her haze, it took her a moment before registering the implication. Dispatch expected her to respond? She scoffed. _No. Absolutely not._ Immediately, she used the car phone to call in, the line connecting on the first ring. “Not my job, Lel.”

Of all the dispatchers CPD ever had, Leliana was the best, easily becoming Manager of Communications after only a few years. The illustrious woman made it a point to stay informed, and what better way to remain attuned to all ongoings in Chicago than for someone to call you and tell their dirty secrets directly? Leliana literally turned the population of the city into her own band of informants.

“You’re already in the area.”

For a moment, Lacy was going to ask how she knew that, given that her department locator was generally off unless she was on scene, but Leliana knew everything. Lacy bit her bottom lip, shoving down the impulse to respond in a less than professional manner. “That’s patrol’s call.”

God, she hated patrol. You stop muggers, respond to domestic disturbances, someone pissed off about the neighbor setting off fireworks at four AM. All important, of course, but she had done her time over the years and earned her rank as the Lieutenant within the CPD’s homicide division. She wanted to catch the murderers —the worst of the worst, those that put your standard 'bad guy' to shame— not waste time perusing for perpetrators committing misdemeanors. But with budget cuts and Illinois being thoroughly broke-as-fuck, the city wanted to avoid any and all hassles.

“Randall is already en route but his partner is stuck processing someone in custody. And we need it done right. That's where you come in.”

 _Fuck. Randall?_ Her former mentor’s son. How long had it been since she last saw him, something around a decade? But his father, now that was a man who knew his shit. Tricks up every sleeve, an alternate tactic for nearly every situation. A real out-of-the-box thinker who had taught her much of what she incorporated in her daily duties. Wiping the sleep out of her eyes, she groaned, trying to find some way, any way out of it. “If we are so concerned about the ability of our officers to do their duty, then they shouldn’t have the responsibility to begin with.”

“Indeed, but-”

Lacy cut her off, irritation clear in her tone. “Not. My. Job.”

“Look, Quiz, go. All right? As a personal favor.”

Rolling her eyes, she had long given up the fight against the moniker. But one simply did not ignore a request for a favor from Leliana. It meant she would owe you one, and if there was anyone in the city of Chicago that you wanted to ‘owe you one’, it was Leliana.

“That way when the mayor calls, I can tell him I have our best on it.”

She scoffed, Nightingale really did know how to pile on the flattery, “When Mayor Theirin calls, you tell him that regardless.”

“Yes, but this time, it’ll be the truth.”

What was she supposed to do, argue? No, Leliana knew she wouldn’t. That’s why she said it. Grumbling under her breath, Lacy muttered “En route,” and disconnected.

With the flick of a switch, Lacy turned on the lights in her otherwise unmarked car. She made a legal -U- turn at the nearest intersection, bringing her farther away from greasy but what would have been oh-so-satisfying fast food. At least it should prove to be an interesting night.

The parking lot was nearly empty except for a few vehicles, including the marked squad car. Upon initial inspection, nothing seemed out of place or suspicious, but her training taught her to treat it as such regardless. Stepping out, Randall greeted her. Though she’d never before worked with him, she understood why Leliana requested her presence.

The man was young, early twenties, cheeky, with brown hair and a trimmed beard. His police blues were pressed with iron creases on the sleeves; damn near fresh out of the academy and giddy to enter the scene. It spoke to his inexperience; no one smiled when they arrived on a call.

For him, the world was still painted in watercolors, skewing reality into a lovely portrait where no darkness dare dwell. Lacy was sorry for the layer of harsh truth about to shatter his illusion permanently. It may not be this call or the next, but it would collide and all the light would be gone, replaced by horrors forever imprinted on his brain. _You would think his father would have warned him._ Perhaps he had; horror stories were entirely different in person than they were in the movies or second hand.

“Stay with me,” she ordered before chirping up the radio advising they were on scene, the implication to initiate ‘code 25’. It was a simple but effective signal to occur every five minutes by dispatch until dismissed to guarantee officer safety upon response, a critical practice which had saved many officers' lives.

They approached the door and peeked through the glass. Only a few lights were on inside at this hour. She placed one hand firmly on her firearm as she used the other to click the radio's button. “Nightingale, I need entry.”

“10-4.”

Lacy gave Randall a pointed look. Without words, her eyes flickered to his firearm, ordering him to withdrawal the weapon he had holstered. Most definitely not like his father, he looked at her dumbfounded before realization set in. Muttered apologies spilled from his lips as a series of mechanisms clicked and they pushed their way inside. The power remained off as to not alert any possible intruders of her presence. With one hand, she pulled out her flashlight and directed it down the various halls, holding it securely over her drawn firearm. It was always better to err on the side of caution. Given the size of the building, it would be a challenge to check with only two of them, but there was no one to spare unless the situation was dire. Plus, they could enlist the help of the security guard, provided she could find him. Though she suspected he was the culprit of the accidentally triggered the alarm.

Cautious steps led them past each exhibit: Dinosaurs, Ancient Egypt, and the Mysteries of China. Randall whispered questions and she continually held up a hand to shush him. She appreciated his desire to learn, but there was a time and place for his inquiries and this was neither. The radio crackled and Randall responded to the status check without Lacy’s instruction. _Good, maybe there was hope for him yet._

They approached the Renaissance exhibit and a chill shot down her spine. It reminded her of Shaggy’s line in Scooby-Doo and how appropriate it was given their current predicament. Just swap castles for museums and it hit the nail on the head. _Because museums have paintings with eyes that watch you, suits of armor you think are statues, but there’s a guy inside who follows you every time you turn around!_

Preposterous really, that the woman who inspected dead bodies could be creeped out by art and decor. Turning her flashlight in each direction, she walked forward past each cordoned off area, Randall following closely behind. They proceeded straight through the rest of the display, bypassing the Disney exhibit and wandered into the animatronics section. She’d always hated them, a terrible idea concocted by someone whose sole mission was to give children nightmares. A voice began speaking as she moved; the King, who _conveniently_ resembled Mayor Theirin, started reciting facts about the time period.   

Triggered by the motion sensors, every damn character or historical figure on display began talking and gesturing robotically. Her attention continually shifted from side to side. Heart thumping in her ears, she slowed her pace. Something moved in her peripheral vision. She turned swiftly, startled by her own reflection in the ornate mirror situated against the wall. “Holy shit!"She flushed from embarrassment and tried to steady her breathing.

“Are you all right?” Randall asked, far calmer than she was —ironic. 

She waved him off, muttering she was fine. Mentally, however, Lacy berated herself. _Scared of your own reflection, seriously? Get your wits about you, Trevelyan._ Having walked by several under construction displays, she assumed the mirror didn’t belong in the area and hadn’t yet been relocated to the correct place. It was tall, intricate designs woven within the craftsmanship of the metal bordering the outside.

An odd sensation kept her in place as she stared at the mirror, expecting to gaze through it like a window. Recited lines from the dummies snapped her back to reality.

She gritted her teeth at the sight. Their wide eyes, plastered smiles and stilled faces unsettled her, causing gooseflesh. What should have been humorous, given their clunky armor and awkward unnatural positions, only formed a pit in her stomach. “Come on,” she whispered, as if Randall had been responsible for the delay.

The flashlight shone on a red pool of liquid coating the ground from the upper right corridor. It was a poignant smell, the stench unmistakable; the metallic scent permeated her nostrils. Even from the distance, there was no doubt the source was blood. And where there was blood, there was generally a body. In her line of work, often dead, but unlike homicide, patrol had the luxury of live victims, or at least, the possibility.

Lacy leaned against the wall, sliding her back alongside it for cover in case whoever was responsible was still in the vicinity and Randall followed suit. Holding her light behind her, she peered around the corner. The illumination from the various statues and display cases didn’t reveal any movement in the distance. But a body lay in the middle of the hall. She directed Randall to keep watch.

Holstering her weapon, she handed her flashlight to him. Withdrawing latex gloves from her belt, she approached to check the welfare of the man who lay on the floor, careful to avoid contaminating the scene. If not a murder, then a violent attack had still occurred here, and it needed to be preserved.

Randall shined the light over her shoulder, making the cartoon characters all but come to life. Hovering over top of the body was a stuffed version of Shrek, mid roar and triumphant. “It’s a fucking kids display,” she scolded herself. Of course some asshole would stick the creepy animatronics just around the corner from a kids event. Even in the dark, the green skin on the 7 foot tall Ogre may as well have been equally as menacing.

The cut and gray color of the victim’s clothes indicated a uniform —presumably, the security guard. She knelt; placing two fingers firmly on his neck, and found no pulse. “Dead,” she said aloud, answering what she imagined was Randall’s first unspoken question of the evening.

Dark brown hair was tied into a small ponytail with matching eyes and a scraggly beard. She spotted the museum logo embroidered on his shirt next to a nametag confirming her suspicion.

 _Duncan  
_ _Museum Security_

There didn’t appear to be any stab wounds upon initial inspection. She’d wager blunt force trauma, but she would need the power on, forensics, and the Coroner to confirm method and manner, per state law.

The radio crackled before Lel’s voice chirped. “Code 25?”

Lacy heard Randall key up the radio. “P22 and I41 is Code 25, Code 2-5. No signs of the perp— ”

The transmission cut, and his words stopped suddenly. Lacy looked behind her, assuming he was fucking with her, only to see a sword by Randall's throat, the metal glinting in the beam of his flashlight. A practiced hand swiped across the front of his neck. Randall’s body collapsed, blood spurting from the incision. The flashlight, their main light source, fell to the ground. Batteries spilled out upon landing, and the hall went dark.

Given the location and amount of blood, Lacy wished he would have died instantly. Instead, his hand clung to his neck gurgling and making choking sounds for what felt like an eternity, while she had no choice but to tread carefully for her own safety. There had been no time to warn him, no time to muster a single fucking sound. A wave of shock washed over her, but the fear subsided, replaced with white-hot rage. Randall may have been talkative and new, but he was still a brother on the force and her former mentor’s son. Fuck, she felt sympathy for whoever would deliver that death notification, which alone had her seething. Far too many died unnecessarily in the line of duty as it was.

Immediately, she drew her firearm, aimed, and pulled the trigger. There was no cry of pain or groan; she had missed. _Shit!_

A shadow sprinted across the hall and Lacy pursued. Keying up the radio, she used the appropriate codes to inform Lel an officer was down, she had discharged her weapon and requested backup. Taking a right at the end of the hall, visibility was better, but still poor. She scanned the area and slowed her pace approaching more damn animatronics. In the second half of the Medieval exhibit, nothing looked out of place or disturbed. Though every motion sensor electronic all the way down the hall was lit and talking, all she heard was the sound of her own thrumming heart and her breath drowning out the robots’ speeches.  

Grabbed from behind, a strong arm locked around her throat cutting off her air supply as her gun clattered on the floor. Clawing at her assailant proved futile. She stomped on his foot, hoping to cause him to stagger, but his grip only tightened, the action not even remotely creating the opening she needed. He dragged her back, despite her resistance. If she could wrap her hand around the man’s head, she could pull forward, flipping him over her shoulder and onto the ground. But he was taller than her, and she couldn’t reach. Attempting to maneuver her way out of the situation, she squirmed, trying to shift but her elbow met unrelenting metal.

A bright blue light emanated down the hallway to her left, but she couldn’t turn to see what it was or the exact cause. She prayed back up had arrived and began yelling to get attention, managing only muffled cries for help. As her oxygen supply was cut off, she grew lightheaded. Using the fact that her attacker lifted her off the floor against him, she extended her right leg out as far as she could, and thrust it back with as much force as she could muster. The impact of her heel meeting with his shin finally broke the hold and he grunted in pain. Lacy toppled to the ground and gasped for air blinking away dark spots. She scrambled to pick up her weapon, swiveled on her knee and aimed, pulling the trigger as a red blur ran into the line of fire and tackled her assailant.

A guttural groan came from one of the men, followed by “Maker’s breath!”

There wasn’t time to analyze the odd language. She clicked her radio button as static cracked the line to life. “Where is that backup?”

The man in red shot her a look of confusion and it was all the initial assailant needed to use a shield —presumably a prop he picked up within the exhibit— and bash the offender away. He staggered backward, tripping over the guard’s body while the original assailant fled down the hall.

Every muscle ached and her chest was heavy, but she forced herself to her feet. Despite being dizzy and her vision blurred, she bolted forward, running straight into the second man who apparently had the same idea of chasing after the first.

Maybe it was because her body was weary, but the experience was akin to colliding with a brick wall. Her knees buckled and her head smacked against the concrete floor. Her radio crackled, but it was indiscernible. Eyes fluttering closed, the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to add a disclaimer, though I've tried to do my research on proper protocols and so on, please leave a bit of room for suspension of belief over police practices in this fic. Just in case there was anything I missed. I try to make it as realistic as possible, but I'm not an officer.


	3. Chapter 3

Cullen’s gaze shifted between Samson’s fleeing silhouette and the woman who had toppled to the ground. Fists clenched, he wanted to check on her well being but couldn’t dare let Samson get away. It would be too great of a risk to allow him to roam free, regardless of where they were.

Casting the unconscious woman a sympathetic look, he took off. His body battered, bruised, and bloody from their earlier fight, he pushed himself despite the strain of his muscles and every limb screaming in protest.

He took a left at the corridor as Samson turned down another hallway. The entire space illuminated, the light near blinding and Cullen squeezed his eyes to block out the brightness. Samson stopped momentarily, seemingly as surprised as Cullen before bolting.

“Freeze!”

He stilled. Tilting his head to the source of the voice, he cracked open his eyes. Several men wearing identical uniforms approached him, metal of some sort in their hands. Though he didn’t know what it was, he assumed it was a weapon given their cautious steps forward and his memory of the woman in the hall with the loud, startling, bang.

Wherever Samson had brought them, it was an odd place. Their clothing minorly resembled the garments in Thedas, simple shirts and breeches. Though every person possessed what he could only assume were dwarven inventions. _Were they this area’s army?_

“Slowly, place the sword and shield on the floor and kick them towards me.”

Cullen cleared his throat, “I cannot delay. There’s been a misunderstanding. We must pursue.” He pointed in the direction but they repeated their command. Someone nodded and a small contingent moved to search.

The voice grew angrier repeating his last instruction. Reluctantly, Cullen moved slowly, unsheathed his sword and placed it and his shield on the ground. Kicking them forward one at a time, pain from his earlier wounds shot through his body. They lowered their weapons only slightly, clearly still on guard.

“Hands up and get down on your knees! Now!”

Doing as instructed, he sighed. His knees screamed as he knelt. One of the blue-uniformed people stepped forward. Cold metal was slapped against his wrist and uncomfortably tightened while his elbow was bent behind his back and they repeated the process to secure the shackles. A few pats to the outside of his body ensured he was not concealing any other weapons.

They loudly proclaimed something about his rights and Cullen agreed when asked if he understood though he truly did not, not all of it at any rate. He hardly comprehended what was going on. It wasn't from unintelligence, but ignorance at their protocols. 

The leader, presumably, instructed two others to stand guard over Cullen and motioned to those behind him. “Secure the area then bring in EMS.”

Dividing, each contingent split off in different directions. Analyzing their processes, Cullen watched with more questions than answers. Where in the Void had Samson brought them? Blinding light beamed from the ceiling, not a candle in sight and his eyes strained. Boxes were everywhere. Small ones held in their palms, some larger tucked underneath their arms, some affixed to their uniforms that they spoke into and from which they received a response. Noise, banging, yelling and an abhorrent wail pierced his ears and he winced in anticipation of — well, to be honest, he had no idea. 

The entire scene was beyond comprehension. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, positive this could be a vivid, uniquely imaginative, lyrium dream. Unlike anything he’d ever seen before, even in his mind, it was too much. Beads of sweat coalesced on his forehead and the tremor in his hand started. He would need to get himself under control, assess the situation first, then determine how much he should fret, assuming of course, there was anything to even fret over. They, rather roughly, assisted him to his feet and escorted him toward the far wall and stood guard.

Approximately ten minutes passed while he tried to regulate his breathing. A loud squeak drew his attention to the door. Outside, flashes of blue and red lights flickered against the windows and Cullen's breath grew rapid. What were those and what did the colors mean? Four people, in white and grey uniforms entered, Each pair pushed a bed on wheels. Though it hardly looked comfortable, it seemed a means of transport for sick or ailing. As half ventured down the hall, two women approached him and the guards stiffened.  

Small in stature, one stood shorter than the other. Pointy ears, though not as large as an elf’s, poked out from a cropping of brown hair and bright green eyes glazed over him. “Oh!”she exclaimed, stepping forward, “my, you just, I’m sorry. You look dreadful.”

He tilted his head, brow furrowing. The woman looked familiar, like someone who used to accompany Hawke in Kirkwall. _What was her name, Mary, Mellie?_ She shifted, setting down a bag by his feet with a white cross before rummaging through it.

The other woman, older and wrinkled with white hair, placed her foot near the wheels and patted the bed twice indicating for him to sit. He followed directions, trying to place her. She too was familiar. Visions of Kinloch filled his brain and he shuddered. _A mage, yes._ He’d seen her around the circle tower and she helped free him from his confines, though they never spoke. _What was she doing here?_

As the brunette stood up, she announced a cheerful “found it” before tearing the small square package open. The gray cursive lettering on her shirt read _Merrill,_ the other woman’s read _Wynne._  “I suspect this may hurt a little,” she warned before a wet cloth touched his forehead. He blinked at the lack of pain. It was nothing like pouring spirits on the wound in the middle of the field or drinking a bitter elfroot tincture. Gently, she dabbed at the injury. White cloth stained red.

“Where is she?” A voice boomed from the doorway. Immediately, Cullen looked for the source, knowing before visual confirmation the unmistakable lilt of that specific Tevinter accent. But how was it possible he too, was here?

Dorian stood tall, perfectly groomed in both hair and mustache, per usual. A long white coat draped down to his sides covering a button up formal shirt and a tan pair of breeches.

“Relax Dorian, I’m right here!” A female called from Cullen’s left. Another all too familiar voice rang that he couldn’t yet place. It was only as the bed on wheels was carted in from the hall and stopped next to him did Cullen see her features.  _Maker, what was going on here._

It had been dark before, that's how he missed the resemblance. Though she was different from the Herald of Andraste, with her gray eyes now onyx and her black hair now ashen blonde, there was no doubt this woman was Lacy Trevelyan. The one he knew with every fiber of his being died when Corypheus attacked Haven. He stared, mouth agape.

Cullen had found the Herald nearly frozen in the snow after hours of searching. He draped his mantle over her and gingerly lifted her body. As he carried her back to their makeshift camp, smelling her perfume and feeling her warmth slip away, she died in his arms, never able to make it to the healers who could have saved her life. The trees used to make her pyre were chopped by the axe in his own hand and prepared personally as the inner circle held the services in Skyhold for the incredible woman who saved them all.

Dorian rushed to the bed where Lacy sat and frantically gave her a once over to check for wounds.

“She wouldn’t let us assess her injuries.” One of the men who wheeled her in said and pointed to Dorian, “Requested you do it, Coroner Pavus.”

“That’s because you all won’t listen to me that I’m fine,” she grumbled, waving her hand at them.

The man raised an eyebrow at Dorian and gestured to Lacy as if she proved his point before walking away.

Dorian stepped towards her, his gloved hands cupped her cheeks and he guided her to look up. “There’s bruising on your throat. Undo your blouse buttons.”

She smirked. "It takes bruising for you to try and get me naked? Just sign off and let's get to work. We've got bodies."

Cullen watched, dumbfounded, as she spoke with Dorian, elaborating on the injuries of the deceased and speculating on what happened. It was like seeing a bloody ghost, the vision of a woman long since burned in the flesh before his eyes. _Breathe, just breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth, slowly._  

“Call in the forensic teams and let’s get to work,” Lacy ordered.

Dorian put a stop to her insistence, wagging his finger in her face. “My dear, you let me look at this bruise or you are not going anywhere.”

She sighed loudly but nimble fingers unfastened the first three buttons. Bruising spanned from her collar bone to her neck. Cullen’s eyes widened. Samson had hurt her badly, and would likely have killed her without thinking twice.

So distracted by the woman next to him, Cullen hardly noticed Wynne and Merrill still working on his own injuries. Merrill cut the thread and stuck a bandage on his forehead. “You’re all set but do try to be more careful, it was quite the wound.”

Onyx eyes met his gaze and Lacy tapped on Dorian’s shoulder twice before whispering, “I may not be all right after all. Can you see him?” She nodded to Cullen.

“Yes,” Dorian said slowly, concerned. “I see him. That’s generally what happens when someone is standing in the same room and one’s eyes are open.”

“So, he’s real?” Lacy inquired, “Not a figment of my imagination?”

“Inquisitor, perhaps we should have you taken to the hospital.”

“Inquisitor?” Cullen questioned, the looks they shot him made him realize he’d asked aloud. The title struck him like a lightning bolt. Every advisor and the entire inner circle bestowed the Herald the honor during her pyre lighting. It was a unanimous decision. They ensured the respect earned was appropriately recognized for the woman who led them since the declaration of formation, even without it being official.

Dorian quirked an eyebrow, “A nickname.” His lips pressed into a hard line. “Trevelyan is the best interrogator in Chicago. Always asks the right questions to extract the toughest of confessions from the most challenging perps. I’m certain you’ll witness her abilities shortly.”

Her gaze flitted between the two guards standing next to him. “Have either of you taken his statement?”

Dorian piped in, explaining to the two guards what shouldn’t have needed to be explained, “That’s generally what happens when one is arrested.”

The man to his right cleared his throat, “Uh, no, not yet. EMS was just tending to his injuries.”

She rolled her eyes, but stood to her feet, muttering under her breath. “And that prevented you from speaking to him and obtaining a statement.” Lacy shook her head and shot them a ‘are you daft’ look. “ **I** will take him down to the station.”

Redirecting her attention back to the guards, she placed her hands on her hips, “Tell me we caught the other culprit.” The two responded simultaneously in the negative and Lacy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dorian, go investigate and make sure everything is tagged and bagged appropriately. I’ll call Lel.”

 _Lel, as in, Leliana? She was here too?_ As Cullen tried to wrap his head around whatever in the Void was going on, Lacy barked orders to men nearby. If this woman was like the Lacy he knew, she would have made an excellent Inquisitor.

“Very well, then.” Dorian grabbed Lacy’s hand, “If you need anything at all, or feel faint, you call me.” Though whispered, it was a clear warning. Raising his voice, he announced loud enough for the room to hear, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my patients are over there.” With a quick kiss to Lacy’s cheek, he sauntered down the hall and out of sight.

Pulling a small box from her pocket, she tapped it a few times and it lit up. She placed it to her ear and began talking. It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t addressing him, but the familiar lilt of the Spymaster seemed to be coming from that _thing_ despite the noise in the room _._ He couldn’t discern what was being said exactly, but recognized the stoic tone immediately. Cullen remained quiet, only watched and listened in confusion as she tucked the dwarven ingenuity into her belt. Realizing how far from Thedas he was, fear of the unknown settled within his bones.

With her hands on her hips, her full attention fell on him. “Now that’s taken care of, who the hell are you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of grief and violence

The man was in his early thirties by her approximation, blonde, curly, slicked-back hair with amber eyes, and a scar that bisected his lips, spanning to the side of his right nostril. He was dressed in plate armor, like the type you see in the movies or those tacky statues that wealthy people decorate their homes with. The mantle he wore seemed stripped straight off an animal, adorned with red-tinted brown fur, matching trousers and knee-high boots, complete with sheath. He could have easily fit into the Renaissance exhibit. Other than being slightly battered and bloody, he appeared well. Merrill confirmed he had no major injuries and didn’t require hospitalization.

Between the clothes and the weapons, he looked like one of those nutjobs that dressed up and played at war in the park on Thursday evenings. Perhaps it was an attempt at cosplay, some weirdo who broke in in the middle of the night to obtain ‘authentic’ accessories. It could always be drugs too, though he didn’t have any of the standard signs— no pupil dilation, no bloodshot eyes, and he didn’t appear unkempt, outside of having a physical altercation with the other offender.

“Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” Even while being cuffed, he performed a half bow in greeting.

 _Oh great, another wise guy._ Pulling a notebook and pen from her pocket, she flashed her badge. “I’m Lieutenant Trevelyan, CPD.”

“Why shackle me?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him, a mix of confusion and irritation. “Mr. Rutherford, when you’re found in a locked museum in the middle of the night with a dead security guard, a member of our force is killed, and the Lieutenant is attacked, logic dictates you’re the presumed offender.”

“I am nothing of the sort.”

“Well,” she corrected, “you and your partner.”

“We are _not_ partners.”

“Fine, then tell me your version of events.” She held her pen, prepared to write down his account to type up at the station.

“Samson and I fought. He drank from the Well of Sorrows and passed through the eluvian.”

Good God, there wasn’t enough coffee, or alcohol, strong enough in the world for this nonsense. Not that she could indulge anyway if such a miracle concoction was readily available; drinking on the job was frowned upon. For professionalism sake, she decided to humor him. “What’s an eluvian?”

“The mirror.” He shook his head, “I don’t fully understand it myself, but it’s powerful, with capabilities that could destroy this world and any other, if it fell into the wrong hands.”

She listened as he detailed his story from start to finish, asking him questions at the appropriate times. If the accent was fake, it was convincing, but everything he said had a formal ring of professionalism to it. Odd, that even under the circumstances he would maintain this Commander character.

Perhaps it was a mental health issue, a case of multiple personality disorder or something. She wasn’t a psychiatrist, and was in no position to provide a diagnosis. A mental health evaluation would probably be best.

After so many years on the force, she’d earned a bit of a sixth sense to determine when someone was lying. He neither fidgeted nor squirmed. On the contrary, he looked her in the eyes the entire time, and there was no excessive blinking, blushing, flared nostrils or feigned smiles. No tells at all, in fact. She asked circular questions, forcing him to reiterate details he’d already told her to ensure his account remained consistent. But there was something about his nature—or the nature of this character he portrayed— that made her believe that at least, he believed the story he told her.

To be honest, she still wasn’t entirely certain he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. A result of cracking her skull against the floor and the deprivation of oxygen. “Very well.” She motioned to the hallway. “We will investigate the mirror and you can show me exactly how it works.”

Obviously, she hadn’t expected anything to come of it, except maybe to prove to him that the story he fed her was utter bullshit. She allowed him to lead, keeping pace just behind him. As they rounded the corridor the gruesome scene came into view down the hall. The forensic team was busy processing the area, bagging evidence, setting up numerical markers and taking pictures. Dorian crouched by Randall, noting his injuries with a frown. 

She squeezed her hands into fists. Randall was a rookie, certainly not one of those who would have climbed the ranks within the force. It’s likely he wouldn’t have lived all that long anyway. Then again, he could have surprised everyone and been a hero. The world would never know because of some LARPER’s obsessions. It made her blood boil and her veins thrummed with rage. Inexperienced as he was, he was a brother on the force. That mattered, his _life_ mattered; she would make the person responsible pay. 

They arrived in front of the mirror, and Lacy glanced further down the hall to where a second detective from the morning shift had been dispatched early to finish investigating, per her request. She felt grateful that she didn't have to get any closer and relive the scene. Given the attack, she wasn’t as sharp as normal. But she couldn’t break down now. No, she had a job to do, feelings would come later along with a stiff drink and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

Stopping to stand in front of the ornate mirror, Lacy eyed Cullen with skepticism. She gestured to it, waiting for him to do something to try and prove his claim. Or rather, prove it was ludicrous when nothing happened.  

He tugged the cuffs behind his back, the metal clinking. “Could you…?”

Amused, she ran her tongue along the bottom of her teeth. “All right,” she nodded, “but if you make any sudden movements, or attempt to flee, I will shoot you where you stand.” She unlatched her holster, and took a key to one of the cuffs to free his wrist.

As the shackles were released, Cullen looked down, rubbing where the metal had dug into his flesh, one cuff dangled off the still secured wrist. 

Lacy rested one hand on her firearm, just in case. He stepped forward, confidently, and touched the mirror. His lips parted and his brow furrowed when nothing happened. Rapping against the glass, he tapped his foot, clearly expecting it to do something. When his efforts yielded no results, he knocked on the frame. “I don’t understand.” Turning his head towards her, his shoulders slumped. “You must think I’m mad.”

“What I think doesn’t matter,” she said, spinning her finger in a circle to get him to turn around. He complied without argument and returned both hands behind his back. Relatching the cuffs, Lacy clicked them into place, careful to ensure they weren’t as tight as before but still secure.

Grabbing him by his upper arm to prompt him forward, she felt the firm muscles underneath. Withdrawing her hand as if he were an oven too hot to touch, she averted her eyes and pretended not to be impressed. The man was gorgeous but had mental issues, what a shame. Heaven knows she had far too many of her own to keep up with and wouldn't wish similar the suffering upon anyone else.

Despite her quick stride, Cullen seemed to keep up. Good, at least she wouldn’t have to continue issuing instructions to people as if they were children. “I’ll be bringing you down to the station for questioning.”

He merely nodded, seemingly resigned to his fate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of grief and violence. Frisking.

The moment they exited the double doors, Cullen halted, gaping at his surroundings.

Buildings spanned to the sky, dwarven carts were situated without pattern —the source of the red and blue lights he saw outside earlier. Light similar to the interior of the, _had she called it a museum_ , illuminated the roads which weren’t made of dirt. It was a wonder to behold and frankly, alarming.

Something dangled in Lacy’s hands, _was that a key of some sort?_ After a chirping noise, the cart flickered with yellow and white. Cullen hesitated, shocked at the ingenuity. He longed for his sword and free hands as he wondered whether to anticipate attack. Lacy pulled the handle affixed to the contraption, opening what appeared to be a door with a chair located inside. Was this their equivalent to a carriage?

“In back, you know how this goes.”

Except he _didn’t_ know how this went, what any of this was, or how in the Void he would convince a woman who likely thought him mad to believe him. Which he supposed was more than fair, considering even he wondered himself mad, staring at a woman he knew to be dead.

Despite being on edge, he hesitantly entered the contraption and took a seat. Lacy shut his door, walked around and got in front on the other side. A cage separated the two, a tactic to prevent someone from harming her while in custody, he assumed. With a simple push of a button, the cart roared to life like an animal.

The sudden commotion gave him a start. A plethora of sounds and noises seemed to surround him coming from all over. _What in the Maker’s name was that nonsense?_ It sounded like common tongue, but they were speaking, quickly, almost as if it was a race and nothing like he had ever heard.

“I apologize.” Lacy rubbed her eyes, seemingly unfazed by the racket that pierced his ears. “I generally don’t transport offenders myself. Music helps on long shifts.” She reached for a dial and turned it to the left as the commotion dulled to a soft roar. Green and blue light glowed in the center.

“You claim that is music?” Cullen asked, horrified.

“Not a fan of rap?” Lacy shrugged and pushed a few buttons.  “Very well, it’s either awkward conversation to fill silence or driver picks the music, so...”

Not entirely certain how to answer, since she wasn’t actually giving him a choice, Cullen gave a subtle nod.

“Country then,” she decided.

The music which played now was softer, almost like that of a gentle chime and a male's accented voice sang words within the cart.  
  
Cullen longed to grab hold of anything as the cart crept forward but couldn’t with his wrists still secured. As best he could, he shifted attempting to get comfortable. He watched Lacy intently; she looked left and right before easing out onto the road. The cart accelerated. Cullen used the mirror affixed to the glass and noticed her eyes darting, clearly keeping watch on the area around her as she started singing along to the tune as if he wasn’t present.

Though her voice was the same, Cullen had never heard her sing before and he suddenly had an interest in paying attention to the tune and the words, as she made the song even better than the person singing. Fondness tugged his lips upwards listening to her, and he wondered if the Herald ever sang like this.

It was then that the bizarre situation struck him in full force. Perhaps it was _he_ who died. Could it have been possible that he was still in the Arbor Wilds at the bottom of the stairs suffering from a hallucination as a result of a massive headwound? It was unlikely that amidst all of his knowledge and the tales once told, he wasn’t aware of any circumstances such as this happening before, on or off record, even among mages. People didn’t simply come back to life. Not without the help of a Mortalitasi, and even then, the magic wouldn’t have changed the world around him in such a manner. And he wouldn't have come back as his corporeal self.

But everything from her appearance to the snark in her attitude told him it was her. Right down to the subtle gestures she didn’t realize she did, like biting her lip when she was nervous, and tucking a stray lock behind her ear—mannerisms he had found endearing, though he never dared voice this while she was alive. He spent most of the ride wondering how in the Maker’s name this was possible.

After roughly ten minutes, they pulled into a space near the front door of a large building.  A sign before the cart read: _Lt. Lacy Trevelyan_. She exited and came around to his side to let him out.

As he emerged, she shut the door behind him and directed Cullen forward. Lacy kept close behind as they passed through a set of double doors attached to a large building. It was a spacious place, with numerous rooms branching off the halls after passing the front desk. Outside each, various names marked designated areas. Lacy led him to a small room labelled ‘Booking’ and told him he would need to remove his armor.

“Is that necessary?” Never a fan of being anywhere unarmed or unarmored, the idea of being in an unknown location with neither was unsettling.

“Yes.” Lacy stated simply. She pulled a keyring from her belt and unfastened his shackles. “Unless you’d prefer a male officer but this is not a strip search, just a pat down. It’s up to you.”

Cullen rubbed his wrists, the indentations not nearly as prevalent as before. He could feel the blood flooding his cheeks. The mere thought of disrobing in any capacity in her presence was disconcerting, but he also couldn’t let her disappear either. Surely, the Maker saw fit to put her in his path, or him in her path for a reason. Would he ever see her again if he dismissed her? Theoretically, if he kept her around, she may be able to help him, provided she believed him. “I, uh, that won’t be necessary.”

From within one of the desks, Lacy pulled out a clipboard similar to what the Ambassador often carried. Parchment was affixed to it. She handed him an item that served the same purpose as a quill, and told him to review and sign his name. From what he gathered amidst the common turn of phrase, it was a legal agreement stating he understood and waived his right to an officer of the same sex conducting a search.

He signed and placed it on the desk, finding the ease of use shocking in and of itself. 

“Thank you, it wasn’t a requirement you sign that but it never hurts to be extra cautious.” She pointed to a door connected to the next room, “You can go in there for privacy if you wish,” she continued providing instruction: to place his materials in the designated box and knock once complete. 

Piece by piece, he dismantled his armor, setting it aside. After his task was finished, he knocked as required. She opened the door instructing him to turn around, set his feet shoulder width apart, and to lean against the wall with his hands out.

Gentle fingers tickled as soft, gloved hands patted his body, starting from his neck and working her way across his chest, arms, torso, and then along the inside and outside of his legs as he tried, Maker did he try, to remember this was not an intimate setting despite the clothing. Had it have been anyone else, under any other circumstances, it would not have been so arousing. But from the moment he saw the Herald on the battlefield, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her and they’d only just met. Now, with her, sort-of here again, even inexplicably, the admiration and fondness bubbled back to the surface.

Thankfully, the search ended there. After providing him a pair of clean clothes, she closed the door allowing him to change in private. As he exited, a colleague, presumably, judging by similar uniform, set a sheet of parchment on a nearby table and a small rectangular pad. Pulling out a chair, Lacy fastened his hands with the shackles again and gestured for him to sit.

He complied but stayed silent. What could he possibly begin to say to explain the bizarre scenario? How could he enlist her assistance when she thought he was the guilty party?

Taking the seat across from him, she opened the lid of the rectangle. “Your hands, please.”

Placing the pad of his finger onto the rectangle, a black substance stained his skin. She pressed firmly, rolling each digit left to right in the designated boxes against the parchment.

Unclipping it from the clipboard, she handed it to the nearby colleague. “Upload these into the system, run him for warrants and a background check, and I want the security camera footage from the museum on my desk.”

For the better part of an hour, he analyzed her every movement while she prepared her reports. He noticed the biting of her lip, the narrowed eyes, the careful hand as she added her signature to every report. Often, she would mumble under her breath and he could see by the circles under her eyes she was exhausted.

He could pelt her with questions about where he was, how to get home, anything that popped into his mind, but it seemed unwise. It would serve him no favors if he solidified the notion he's mad. 

“What happens now?” He asked, shifting as the back of the chair pressed against a tender area where a bruise had formed.

“Momentarily, I’ll take your picture, escort you down to the interrogation room to ask you some questions and have you sign off on your statement,” she explained, not even bothering to look up. “Currently, you’re being charged with breaking and entering. Though more may be forthcoming.”

Lacy and Cullen approached a window where he saw yet another familiar face, Leliana. Other than a few subtle differences, she appeared the same. Short red hair cut to her chin framed her face with lips pressed into a hard line and the same deep, all-knowing eyes. She wore a dark blue collared shirt with _Chi-Comm_ embroidered on the front and a badge.

“Inquisitor.” Leliana handed a sealed envelope to Lacy, who took it with a slight nod of thanks.

Down three hallways, Cullen was led into a room with only two chairs, a table, and a glass window. Lacy motioned for him to have a seat, and she took the one opposite. She unclasped the envelope and pulled out sheets of paper and began to read. Her brow furrowed and she glanced at Cullen over the top of the stack.

There was a note of curiosity in her eyes, but she looked at him differently than before, as if whatever that envelope contained sealed his fate.

“You understand and waive your right to an attorney for this questioning, is that correct?”

“Yes, I will answer as best I can,” Cullen affirmed with a nod.

Her lips twitched, the smallest indication of a smirk. “Something simple to start with. State your name.”

“Cullen Rutherford.”

“Profession?”

“Commander. Formerly Knight-Captain stationed to Kirkwall, and then interim Knight-Commander.”

“Why were you in the museum after hours?”

“To be honest,” Cullen explained, leaning against the back of the chair, “I wasn’t aware of where I was, or when.”

Lacy bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes slowly. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right, what were you doing?”

“I was in pursuit of Samson. I followed him here. When I arrived, you were mid-battle.”

“Mid-battle,” she repeated as if the words were foreign. “Does Samson have a surname? And why were you chasing him?”

“His name is Raleigh Samson, but he goes by the latter. Samson must pay for his crimes. He turned on his brothers in arms,” Cullen snarled, his lips twitching involuntarily, “led our friends to their slaughter. Did so of sound mind…”

A quirked eyebrow met his ferocity. “You think he is of sound mind?”

“I am certain he knows exactly what he is doing.”

“And what is that?”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but realized he had no idea what Samson was doing here, or if his arrival was intentional. “Nothing good, I can assure you.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Lieutenant,” he used the title deliberately to both show respect and obtain her attention, “I only know we must impede his advance.”

She smiled, clearly amused. What she found humorous, Cullen didn’t know. “We, is it?”

“He is a threat, and a serious one. Guilty of the murder of hundreds, he is not to be taken lightly.”

Lacy didn’t seem to heed his warning and Cullen clenched his fists in frustration. Regardless of how the situation looked, treating him as a prisoner would only further Samson’s efforts, play right into his hands. Who knew what he was involved in while Cullen was trapped here? Perhaps there was still a chance she could be reasoned with. The Herald he knew was never one to condemn until all the facts were presented. If he could only appeal to her sensibilities… “Allow me to earn my freedom and assist you in this endeavor. Strategically, I can speak to how he operates, to his processes. We are on the same side.”

Eyeing him curiously, she seemed to consider it, if only for a moment before standing and pushing in her chair. She turned to the mirror and said, “We’re done here, escort him to his cell.”

Though he couldn’t see anyone, she had clearly issued instructions. Roughly two minutes later, two men entered the room and tugged on his arm prompting him to stand. “Grant me the opportunity to prove where my loyalties lie.”

She only looked at him, as if she wanted to believe but was holding back.

“Tomorrow,” he insisted, “I shall prove it, tomorrow.”

To his surprise, she gave a subtle nod. Relief washed over him before giving way to dread. Maker, how in the Void was he going to do that?


	6. Chapter 6

Lacy ventured to the breakroom, thoroughly unsurprised to see the coffee pot with only remnants at the bottom. It wasn’t even enough for a drink were she desperate. Having had a rough night, she was in no mood to continue on with circular arguments. Even the promise of precious caffeine was not enough to muster the energy to make a fresh pot in her irritation. She walked to her office, plopping the file down on her desk.

Running her hands through her hair, she sighed. Most of the information he provided would have to wait to be verified. She didn’t know enough about Britain and their professions to know if one of the most basic questions had been honestly answered. Planning to Google it later, the most curious detail came from the folder Leliana provided. His background check came back clean, but the file contained classified military information. Lacy would have to make a number of calls and pull a few strings to bypass the security clearance. All of which, could not be done tonight. But even so, were he a danger, that would have been indicated.

Despite the sheer implausibility of his account, something in the back of her head told her, rather insisted, that Cullen was the sort to tell the truth. There was something about his demeanor, the sincere inflection in every word. Though pleasant to hear, it could have been the accent. It had always been a challenge to detect unnatural speech patterns in another who regularly spoke differently, immediately putting her at a disadvantage.

When she sat down in her chair, an email notification popped up on her computer. Entering her login information, she proceeded to review the last 72 hours of footage from the security cameras outside the museum. She watched with a meticulous eye, but fast forwarded through the mundane unrelated daily operations. Thankfully, given Mr. Rutherford’s odd state of dress, he should have been easy enough to spot amidst the daily crowds of people.

As the minutes turned to hours, she found absolutely nothing. No one who closely resembled him entered the museum. And a man like that drew attention. Outside of the fact he was gorgeous, he was built like a model, the kind one would regularly find on fitness magazines with tag lines screaming ‘How to bulk up in 25 easy steps’ or ‘6 ways to get ripped before Summer.’ The point was, he was impossible to be inconspicuous and unnoticable.

And yet, there was nothing corroborating that he was ever there except for when she escorted him to her unmarked squad. The good news was that the other offender was equally as noticeable, just for all the wrong reasons. Whereas Cullen was handsome with chiseled features, the other man was the exact opposite, with grimy hair and scars. The only thing the two had in common was the choice of attire seemed to be from a similar time period, donning armor of similar make. 

Moving on, she began screening the interior cameras. There were far too few, but they had managed to capture the struggle between Samson and the victim, Duncan. She breathed shakily, pausing the recording to gain her composure. Swallowing, she pressed the play button and watched as she and Randall came into view. Tears stung her eyes, but she bit them back. There would be time to grieve later, once his murderer was brought to justice and she had a culprit’s head to serve on a pretty platter to her former mentor. Though it didn't make having to repeat the experience of his death any easier.  

Eyes glued to the screen, she switched angles only to find the mysterious mirror conveniently out of view of any of camera. Cullen ran down the corridor intervening as she fired her gun. Pressing a few buttons, she toggled each camera in both directions. Though missing from the first one, Cullen's appearance was prevalent in the second, as if he materialized in the blind spot and ventured into view.

Replaying the scene again, she tried to find a plausible explanation. Perhaps it was the lack of caffeine, food, or sleep, but no matter what logical standpoint she approached it from, she could find no answer on how Cullen mysteriously appeared in the frame moments after he was never on camera at all. Clearly, she was far too deprived if she was beginning to lend credence to the likelihood of the magic mirror story.

Lacy captured and enlarged a screenshot from the security camera footage of Samson. The unrelenting metal which had collided with her elbow during the fight, had been shed before Samson fled. Leaving the tattered clothes Samson wore underneath easily blendable within the homeless population of Chicago. She issued a BOLO—or ‘be on the lookout’—for the man dubbed Raleigh Samson.

Typing up a quick summary devoid of intricate specifics, she sent an email to Josephine. It was no wonder she was CPD’s public relations specialist. The woman could turn the worst scenario and spin it in their favor to the civilians. It wouldn't be long before she issued a press statement and the police force and the public collaboratively sought justice on behalf of their fallen officer.

Her cell rang and a female voice singing _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard_ indicated her personal line, not her work one. Swiping the screen, she answered without having to see who was on the caller ID. In truth, she doubted he hated losing the bet as much as he tried to make her believe.

“Dorian, I told you I'm fine. Stop being a mother hen.”

“Now now, my dear, I am simply making sure you are following doctor’s orders. I know you are at home resting, not still at work delving through who knows what.”

“It's only been a few hours.”

“It's noon. Go home, sleep for a bit.”

Shit, she really had been going at this all night long. Ugh, Lacy hated when he was right, that he knew so much about her he could easily call her out without being present.

“Out of curiosity, how did the interrogation go?”

“Not well.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I don't think he's hiding behind a fabrication to make a plea of insanity. He truly believes his story. At best, he's an unreliable witness, at worst, he's still somehow a breaking and entering offender and gets committed instead of serving a sentence. Wants me to let him prove his account.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“Unfortunately, I've no idea. The security cameras prove he wasn’t involved in either murder and I have no other leads at the moment. He may be delusional, but I don't think he's a danger.” After all, even on the video, the only person who he went after was Samson. “At least not to anyone other than this Samson character; he truly despises him.”

“You’re considering it? How do you expect to let him prove himself? Lacy, this sounds more than a little crazy.”

“What part of no other leads was hard to understand?” A yawn escaped that she couldn’t stifle. She muttered apologies. “I trust my instincts, there’s something about him. I want to believe him.”

“Absurdness of the situation aside, we will talk later. Right now, go home and sleep. That’s an order.”

“You can’t give me orders,” Lacy protested with a half-hearted smile.

“And you can’t stop me.” Dorian countered, the jovialness in his tone bleeding through.

After more back and forth, the two exchanged goodbyes and promised to speak late, and then Lacy headed home for what she hoped would be a solid five hours of rest.

 

Though the accommodations were better than those in Skyhold and far less dirty, the holding cell could hardly be called comfortable. The small bed they provided didn’t even span the width of Cullen’s shoulders and he shifted, trying to situate himself in a position that wouldn’t cause aches and pains in the morning. Not that he wouldn’t have those anyway, thanks to lyrium withdrawal.

The ability to sleep wouldn’t have come easily were he in his own bed in Skyhold and it was less so here, in this strange land with these (somewhat) unfamiliar people and their ingenuity. Most of the night was spent wracking his brain and staring at the ceiling as he tried to figure out why the mirror wouldn’t work. What was the difference from when he was chasing Samson to when he stood willing it to open with Lacy?

Moreover, if Cullen couldn’t determine what happened, how was he going to prove his story as promised? If nothing else, he strived to be a man of his word. And if she already thought him mad, what hope was there? In truth, he couldn’t blame her. If he didn’t know better, even he would think he was a few ores of Silverite shy of a full suit.  In the course of the past 24 hours, he’d borne witness to several inexplicable oddities. Self propelling dwarven carts on wheels, communication devices, lights without candles, and yet the simplest explanation for the least bizarre event which occurred eluded him.

All things considered, it could have been worse. Over the course of the night and all morning, he had been treated fairly, allowed to relieve himself regularly (thankfully figuring that out hadn’t been much of a chore, given the similarities to chamber pots) and was brought food more frequently than he sought it in Skyhold. And Maker, if Ferelden food tasted as good he would’ve made it a point to take regular meal breaks, finding more satisfaction in a hearty broth than a stack full of urgent missives.

Out of habit, Cullen moved to rest his hands on the pommel of his sword, disheartened to find it absent. It was often a coping mechanism to alleviate anxiety more so than professional decorum. If he felt his weapon, he had nothing to fear, he was in control of the situation. And that’s when it struck him like lightning. His sword had been confiscated. It was the only difference; the missing link.

Perhaps while it sat at the bottom of the well, it was imbued with magic. If nothing else, it was a worthy theory to test and in truth, the singular one he possessed, though it was possible his efforts would be futile and he’d be resigned to a fate in this odd world, rotting in a cell for the remainder of his life.

The darkest parts of himself wondered if he deserved it. He had tried to atone for the atrocities in Kirkwall, for what he personally turned a blind eye to as he claimed mages weren’t people. Was this the destiny his actions wrought? Maybe this was the Maker’s way of seeing justice served.

Just as Cullen was about to sink into the darkness his mind had conjured, the click of heels indicated someone approaching. Before Lacy even came into view, he knew it was her. Her steps were a rhythm he’d grown accustomed to hearing against the stone floor of Haven’s chantry. Unlike Josephine’s hurried footfalls or Leliana’s silent ones, Lacy’s were purposeful, confident. He stood, awaiting instruction.

She wore black breeches and a burgundy button up, complimented by a black jacket. Blonde hair was parted and fastened, curls cascading down her left shoulder— a clean and professional look which spoke of her presence meaning business. 

Again, Cullen experienced deja vu. The Herald’s ghost stood before him as he fondly remembered the pink tint to her ivory cheeks, the way her smile brightened up the room, and the sparkle in her eyes when he concurred with her strategy. He shook his head, dispelling the image of the raven haired woman with gray eyes for the ashen haired, onyx-eyed beauty.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rutherford.”

“Lieutenant.” He half bowed in greeting.

She quirked an eyebrow, but a small smile—subtle, but there—tugged at her lips. “You and I are going on an adventure today. Back to the crime scene; I expect you to keep up your end of the bargain.”

Cullen exhaled sharply. She was giving him the opportunity, the benefit of doubt. He hadn’t thought she actually meant it, but she proved her word held merit and if nothing else, he respected and appreciated that.   

“A few ground rules to set expectations.”

“Of course.” He anticipated as much. Waving his hand, he prompted her to continue.

“You will remain in cuffs, you will follow instruction as it is provided, and if you make any attempt to flee, you will be restrained, detained, and if necessary taken down by force. Do you understand?”

He nodded. She spoke her instructions, clear but concise. Cullen recognized the edge in her tone transforming her words into orders.

Unhooking a pair of shackles from her belt, she put her hand through the bars. “Wrists.”

Cullen complied, placing his hands in front of him and allowing her to lock him in. Taking a step back, she turned to a colleague, ordering his release. A click sounded before the door shifted and slid open. She placed his boots on the ground and he slid his feet inside, not even bothering to sit.

“You ready?”

No, no, he wasn’t ready, he needed his sword. The sword they had taken away. How would he go about convincing her to let him bring it along? It was possible she would interpret the request alone as a method to harm her. But without it, there would be no chance to convince her of the truth. “I need back what was taken.”

She eyed him warily. “What was taken…”

“It’s a bastard sword, Silverite, Inquisition symbol on the crossguard.” He thought about it, realizing she wouldn’t know what the Inquisition insignia looked like. “An eye on the crossguard. It’s custom.”

Both eyebrows raised at his request but she then narrowed her eyes, speaking slowly, “You want me to allow you to bring a weapon?”

Even he had to admit her suspicion of it being a trap was fair. A cautious leader was a living one. Were he in her position, he would have scoffed at the request as well. “My lady,” he cleared his throat, pleading with his eyes for her to grant him trust, “I do not seek to deceive, but the sword is required. You can keep it in your possession until we arrive. I’ll not harm you or attempt to. You have my word.”

Her features softened for a moment as she met his gaze. Eyes shifting, she looked him from top to bottom before providing the subtlest of nods.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Language. panic attack (Not quite sure if you'd consider it one, but just to be safe. It's a freak out.)

With the museum closing due to the crime scene, the section was cordoned off, empty of anyone other than Lacy, Cullen, and the security guards posted at the front. Why she was even entertaining the insane notion of allowing him to prove his story, she couldn’t say. _What the fuck am I thinking?_

_Well, for starters, you heard the sincerity in his words then saw the weight of emotion in his eyes as he swore to do you no harm._

Lacy huffed, conceding to the other half of her own argument.

_And you believed him._

Which would likely prove to be incredibly stupid. She knew better than to pull stunts like this; it was how the best of the best wound up dead. One dumbass move, just one, was all it ever took to have your ass handed to you or be carted out in a body bag. She had seen it far too many times. Yet, the moment a handsome blonde used some pretty words she turned into a rookie, ready and willing to throw out years of training and procedure to... what, placate him? Why?

What was her connection with this man, why did she even care about his story? Because she was a detective. Not just any detective, but the _best_ detective in Chicago, or at least she strived to be. And getting to the truth, no matter how far fetched, was instilled in her very being.

She set the box containing his sword and shield down by the mirror. Cullen held forth his wrists, asking the silent, ‘would you please?’ Her immediate instinct was no. _No fucking way. Uncuff a prisoner while you are the only two in the immediate area and hand him a weapon. You’re basically an accomplice to your own murder. How daft are you?_ But his weighted sentiment stayed with her. _You have my word_. Spoken like a man of honor, one worth heeding.

_God, I am special kind of stupid._

Trudging forward, she took the key and released him. “If you do anything at all that I don’t like—” her hand grabbed her gun as she tucked the keys and cuffs in her pocket—“I will put a bullet in your brain.”

Cullen nodded, slowly moving toward the box. “May I?”

Angling her gun downward, she still held it at the ready, prepared just in case. _I don’t want to shoot him, but I will if I have to._ “Go ahead.”

The fluorescent light reflected off the blade, making it gleam as he moved it. He tapped the glass with his hand before placing the point against the reflective surface. Her biggest concern was whether she would end up having to pay out of pocket for a scratch on a priceless artifact. But instead, it glimmered to life, a ripple effect beginning from the point of his sword and expanding outward until the entire thing glowed with a shimmering, ethereal blue light. Eyes wide, she stared.

Cullen gestured to it. “After you, my lady.”

Lacy cast him a skeptical look. If she thought hard enough, she could probably come up with a horror movie that held a similar premise, something lying in wait beyond the mirror ready to strike at the first sign of intrusion. “Mmm nmm, you first.” She moved her gun to motion him to go.

“Together then?” He outstretched his hand.

Lacy rubbed her eyes, positive it was a dream and certain he would be gone when she opened them. Holstering her weapon, she pinched herself for good measure but he remained, hand held unwavering in the air. While logic and reason dictated cuffing him and checking him into a mental institution, something compelled her to accept. She reached for him. Enveloping her hand in his, Cullen led her to the mirror. They exchanged a look between them and nodded before simultaneously stepping through.

There was little time to pay attention to her surroundings before searing pain shot through Lacy’s left hand. She dropped to her knees. Green light burned her retinas as the flesh of her palm tore open. A stabbing sensation forced a cry from her throat. Breathing rapidly, she cursed under her breath, balling the afflicted hand into a fist. She scrambled forward, pulling her gun from it’s holster and pointed it at Cullen. Through clenched teeth, she snarled, “What did you do to me?”  

He looked very much like a deer caught in headlights. Cullen gaped at her hand and the green illuminating from it. “Maker’s breath.”

Cullen’s throat went dry, and he swallowed hard, blinking as if doing it enough would change the scene in front of him.

Lacy pointed the metal weapon away and pulled the trigger. It boomed and he jumped, surprised by the sound. He recalled hearing the same noise in the hallway as Samson was fleeing; she must have shot it then as well. To his left, the stone crumbled upon impact.

Any questions he may have had before diminished. He was absolutely certain, Lacy was Andraste’s Herald. “Inquisitor,” he breathed as if saying the deserved title aloud would help his mind process the information.  

“What did you do to me?” she demanded. Eyes narrowed, her lips twitched. She repeated her question again, louder.   
  
“I—” But he didn’t have time to respond.

A click caught his attention and he looked at his feet. Seared grass in various shapes formed a glyph resting under his boots. If Cullen moved an inch, it would detonate and result in life-threatening burns. 

His head screamed to exercise caution. “Lieutenant,” he pointed downward, “Did you do this?”  
  
Frantically, she shook her head. “No. I don’t even know what the hell that is!”  
  
Were the situation not dire, he would have asked what ‘hell’ was. But now was hardly the time for such questions. “Listen carefully. I need to do something, but you need to trust me. Do not move. I would not see you harmed.”

She seemed to heed him, watching closely but not moving or speaking, eyes shifting between himself, the magic on her palm, and his boots.

Magic clearly worked differently between the two worlds. He remembered how dire a state Thedas was in, and held no illusions or notions it would have suddenly improved in his absence. While the fighting inside the Temple of Mythal had subsided and there wasn’t another soul in sight, he hadn’t thought much of the remnants of battle. He hadn’t considered residual magic would lie in wait, such as the glyph below his feet.  
  
It had been months since his last draught of lyrium, but he drew from within using his templar training, praying it would work. A tingling sensation travelled from his chest to the tips of his fingers as a blue aura engulfed him, dispelling the mine. Breathing a sigh of relief, he ignored the sudden onset of exhaustion. He placed his sword on the ground and put his hands up in surrender.

“What the hell was that!”  She didn’t wait for a response, instead she stood and began to pace. “It looked like magic,” Lacy shook her head and her brow furrowed. “But it can’t be, it doesn’t exist.”  She stared at her palm, as the very presence of the mark contradicted her words. “This isn’t _The Lord of the Rings_ or _Game of Thrones._ None of this shit exists in real life.”

“I don’t know what those are, but I assure you—” He started, but was cut off by her prattling and sudden disregard for his presence.

“Maybe I was drugged?” Her ponytail whipped in the wind. “No, he had no opportunity.”  
  
“I am standing right here.” Cullen added, but she paid him no mind.

Picking up the small box attached to her belt — _had the people at the base called that a radio?_ She hit a button and spoke into it, but it began to make a beeping noise. 

“Shit, no back up. What would they even do if I could make contact? What would I say? Okay, facts, let’s talk facts. Tangible proof. Start with what you know.” Her rapid breathing steadied as she inhaled deeply. “My name is Lacy Trevelyan. I live on the north side. Been a Cubs fan since I was a child. The year is 2020. I work for the Chicago Police Department. I’m a Lieutenant in the homicide division.” Halting her pacing, she stood still, rolling her muscles. “I’m investigating the murder of Duncan and Randall after a breakin at the Museum. Which lead me to a subject who fled, and this one who I detained and we went to the museum and was transported somewhere via mirror.” She gave a curt nod, before smacking her forehead with her palm. “For fuck’s sake, I sound insane.”

“Calmer heads are required if you wish to discuss this.” The last thing he needed was for her to get more upset and have both sides contending against the unpredictable magic of the mark with one half the party ignorant.

Lacy turned to him, seemingly surprised as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Then start talking,” she waved her weapon although not pointing it at him any longer.

Though she didn’t say it, he heard the implied ‘or the next shot hits you’ in her tone. 

“Others could still be in the area. I understand this is extensive, but you could put us both at risk if you don’t calm down and lower your voice.”

“I am being calm!” she snapped. 

Despite her confusion and panic, Cullen was positive she wasn’t planning to hurt him, that she didn’t blame this on him. If she’d wanted to, she had several opportunities to use her weapon. No, she seemed the reasonable sort, wanting all information before making a decision, regardless of how dire the circumstances.

“What is this place? How is this all possible? Where did you take me, what’s this thing on my friggin' hand?” Inhaling slowly, her face steeled, all signs of panic and horror erased. In a calm, level tone, she said, “Tell me everything.”

The particular statement shocked him as he remembered the Herald saying it verbatim in Haven at the start of every council. Shaking his head, Cullen paced and hesitated, wondering where to begin. It was likely she’d think him mad all over again, just as he’d finally proved otherwise. With a slow exhale, he centered himself and detailed everything about Thedas. From the explosion of the Conclave to the events that led him to her world— everything except the fact she looked identical to the Herald. Neither her resemblance nor any feelings he’d had for her would have added to the conversation, thus both were omitted. 

The conversation was engaging, as Lacy asked all questions openly and repeated his story to ensure she had an accurate grasp of events. She placed her weapon to her side. Her need to no longer remain armed comforted him.

“We fight under the same banner, Inquisitor.” The use of title was deliberate, though for whose benefit, Cullen wasn’t certain. “Apprehending the one responsible aids both our causes.”

“And that’s Samson?” 

“Yes.” Cullen could see her expression shift; and allowed a comfortable silence to fall over them. _She will need a little time to piece together what I've said. A courtesy I can extend_. He took a seat on the ground beside her.

Neither shying away nor reaching for her weapon, she sat quietly contemplating. Discreetly, she tried to pinch herself, an action Cullen often did when he swore he was in the throes of lyrium withdrawal. Just like he had done when he first arrived in her world. This had to be equally startling as it had been—still was—for him. “Allow me to lend my assistance in your search.”

“You know Cullen, you seem like the decent sort. But this is all so....”  
  
“Overwhelming?”  
  
“Yes, that.” Lacy sighed, “Let me think about it. Give me a bit to wrap my head around, whatever this is before I make any decisions about you.”

Cullen nodded, “Very well.” He motioned to the large temple. “Come, let us find a rift, and I shall show you what you’re capable of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, and I do apologize. My husband was in the hospital so writing hasn't been top priority lately. But Hooray for an update! Hope to have another for you soon. <3


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